


easy up

by anticommute



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 5 cm per second au, Anime AU, M/M, school au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticommute/pseuds/anticommute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5cm per second au, layhan<br/>trains, rockets, and did you know flower petals fall at five centimetres a second? growing up sometimes means leaving even the closest friendships behind, and not everything ends with a coincidence. sometimes the world is not smaller than it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy up

**episode 1.**

This is a memory.

It's spring time, and the flowers on trees bloom in preparation for the fruits which follow after. It's warm enough for short sleeves during the day, but still cool enough that sweaters are draped over shivering shoulders at night. Footsteps follow shadows; scuffed up sneakers trail behind.

Voices seem to blur within the wind. The roar of cars falls muted to a faint whisper, a cacaphony of chaos reduced to the quietest of birdsongs in the tumble of time. There is chatter; conversation rendered unintelligible, a jagged rock worn smooth over the years.

And, there is:

"Did you know, that apparently, flower petals fall at five centimeters per second?"

"Ha, Zhang Yixing, since when do you know this sort of thing? Did you suddenly read a book?"

"There's nothing wrong with books..."

"Of course not but—hey, are you upset? You know I..."

Childish voices. One teasing, one petulant, one comforting, one laughing. The rumble of wheels on train tracks, of cars on trains. They part ways here. One darts forward, under the falling barrier - the other watches, a half-step too late as the train forges through. He doesn't go this way. He goes another way. This is always where they part. 

"We'll see each other again!"

A lopsided smile, a hint of a dimple, and a cheerful wave.

This is the memory.

 

-

 

"Hey. Still here?"

Lu Han jerks awake in his seat at the voice. Minseok peers around the edge of his cubicle, jacket tossed over his shoulder. He'd been dozing off again. Something about the past; it was doing that a lot these days. He shakes it off. Grins.

"Could say the same for you," he says. He likes Minseok. Minseok has that sort of air that makes him easy to like. He's easy to laugh around. "It's pretty late."

Minseok makes the sort of face that says he'd rather be anywhere but here, but hey, what could a guy do? "You should go home soon," he says. "It's dangerous."

A grin plasters itself across Lu Han's face. "Awww, are you worried about me? Hey, how about we go home together? It's dangerous for you t—"

"No." Minseok rolls his eyes and shuts him down faster than a train pulling out of the station. "We don't even live in the same direction."

Lu Han fakes hurt, and laughs at Minseok's face. "Got it, got it. Have a safe trip!"

They're co-workers, although Lu Han likes to pretend they're friends. He's pretty sure that even though Minseok has rebuffed all his attempts at friendships, they've still managed to cross that tenuous boundary. He's pretty sure. Fairly. Not completely sure, because it's impossible to be completely sure. Friendship... No, relationships. A black box into which you could only give, and that you could reach into, but that you could never see into, or know what was inside.

How many years had it been? It was fall, now. The leaves had changed colours, and would begin to drift from their branches soon. Falling. Slowly, quickly, dizzily. But in the end, they'd all fall to the ground.

It was almost October. Maybe that was why the past was catching up with him.

Lu Han sighs, and closes the file he'd been reading. It _was_ late, and he didn't think he'd be getting any more work done tonight. It'd been several years since the last time he'd seen him, but that was how time worked. It just marched on, and on, and on, and before you knew it, it was hours, or days, or years later.

He's the last one in the office, so Lu Han turns the lights off as he leaves. He pauses in the doorway. Even in the darkness, the faint lights of the computers suffuse the room in an almost unnoticeable glow. But if you knew it was there, it became blindingly obvious. 

Like the past.

Lu Han shakes his head, dislodging the thoughts as the door closes behind him. The past is a dangerous place to live in, when the future is always racing ahead. Like a train pulling out of the station, and he's always worried that this time, he'd forgotten to get on.

 

-

 

"Love letter?"

Yixing looks amused when he tells him. Lu Han wants to hit him, so he does.

"Ughhh, a love letter from a boy. I told them, of course not! And then they said, Yixing is such a girly name, how do we know it's not a girl?"

Yixing just laughs, and pushes Lu Han's mug closer to him. "I hope you told them I'm not a girl," he says. His eyes crinkle when he laughs.

It's been a few months since the last time Lu Han saw him. Yixing had moved away just before middle school had started, and then Lu Han had transferred schools a year after that. Different schools, and different cities. He's used to it, and he's glad that his mom has relatives she wanted to visit here, in this city that Yixing lives in now. They're friends.

Lu Han lives in Beijing now. He likes it. He likes the bustle and the noise and the people and his ability to feel alone in a crowd. It also means that Yixing visits, sometimes. Beijing is big, Yixing had explained. It's easy to visit.

Lu Han hadn't understood. Instead, he'd dragged Yixing to karaoke. "Aren't we too young to go by ourselves?" Yixing had protested. "I'm fourteen, it's the middle of the afternoon, nothing's going to happen, now are you coming or not?" They'd stayed out too late that night and Lu Han's mother had chided him lightly and Yixing had said he had a great mom. Lu Han was also grounded for a week after Yixing left, but he never told him this.

"Hm?" Yixing prods him, and Lu Han looks up.

"You were spacing out," Yixing says. "And I thought I was the one who was supposed to be spaced out."

"You're always spaced out," Lu Han retorts. "No one can tell the difference."

Yixing punches Lu Han lightly in the shoulder. "What were you thinking about?" he asks.

Lu Han makes a face and punches back. "That the only person I get letters from is a guy and that sucks."

"Would you rather not get any letters?" Yixing asks.

Lu Han's heart drops for a split second, before he registers the smile on Yixing's face, and the teasing lilt in his voice. "I'd rather have a cute girl," he says quickly. "If you were a girl, this would be so much more romantic."

"Too bad I'm a guy," Yixing says. "But, on the other hand, if I squint, I can almost pretend you're a girl..."

Lu Han growls. "I swear, if we still went to the same school..." He cracks his knuckles as threateningly as he can, and Yixing nearly falls off his chair laughing.

He doesn't remember what they did for the rest of that visit. He remembers that they'd stayed for a few days, and Lu Han had cajoled his mother into allowing him to sleep over at Yixing's place one night. They'd played card games and traded stories and had fallen asleep watching a movie, legs tangled with arms, a bowl of snacks between them and a blanket tossed haphazardly over them, Lu Han's face smushed awkwardly against Yixing's stomach while Yixing curled up around him.

That had been before cellphones and email. They must have existed, history tells him so, but they hadn't had such things.

The train slides into the station, and Lu Han stands up. It's late, so instead of the morning crush, it's a mere trickle of people who leave through the doors and flood the platform.

For a second, Lu Han stands there, a human pillar in a shallow river. Just for a second.

 

-

 

_Lu Han:_

_How are you? It's getting colder now, don't dress too cool. Health should be more important. But you probably know that, right..._

_Changsha is nice. It's not as big as Beijing, but it's big too. Do you remember when we were both in Tianjin? It's a little like that... Well, not really. I'm not very good at describing things._

_Did you know, someone here reminds me of you a little. I wonder why...? He's very tall. He's also not as mean as you were._

_Haha, did you think I was serious? I'm kidding._

_At first, he seems really quiet, but in the end, he's still quieter than you. Was that unnecessary to say...?_

_Oh, right, do you remember, the last time you visited, I said my mom was going to get me a guitar? I'm learning to write songs. Maybe the next time we see each other, I can play it for you. I want to play it for a girl. You should tell me what you think!_

_Write back soon,_

_Yixing._

 

-

 

_Lu Han:_

_Why do you always take forever to write me back... Mail is slow enough already, you don't need to make it worse._

_Did you know, in the time between this letter and the last letter, a new building grew on my street? Haha. Buildings grow faster than trees here. It's like every day, I'm walking into a new city. Sometimes, a building disappears. I guess that has to happen so a new one can appear, right? Is it the same for you? Everything is changing so fast. I wonder if our old school is still the same. Do you think our houses are still there?_

_Change can be scary. Something is there, and then it's gone. It's also exciting, isn't it?_

_Do you remember the friend I told you about? He helps me write lyrics sometimes. He's much better at writing than I am._

_Maybe you would be good at it too. I'm not very good at words._

_But then again, all you do is make fun of me... Am I that easy to make fun of?_

_Don't answer that._

_It snowed for the first time yesterday. It rarely snows here, did you know? You should dress warmly._

_Maybe you could come visit. It's warmer!_

_Yixing._

 

-

 

_Lu Han:_

_I thought I told you to write faster... Not to take your time. Are you teasing me again? Last time I talked about change, but you'll never change!_

_It's already spring! Also, I told you not to catch a cold, and you wrote saying that you caught a cold? Did you go outside without dressing warmly? So stupid._

_She sounds nice. I think you should talk to her. If you never talk to her, you won't know what you missed, right? I know I'm younger than you, but you should still listen to me about this._

_We're going to have a concert soon. I'm going to sing. Yifan helped me write the lyrics...well, I say that, but really, he basically wrote the lyrics. He says my lyrics are too childish. We used to sing together - you sang well. I still remember when we went to karaoke. Do you still sing a lot? I wish I could hear you sing again. I think you would be a good singer._

_It's raining a lot here. Again, try not to catch a cold..._

_I'll just leave this letter like this._

_Write back faster this time!_

_Yixing._

 

"Talk to her, huh?"

Lu Han folds the letter and slides it back into the envelope. He wonders how long he can wait to send a reply before Yixing gets really upset. He chuckles at the thought. There's this girl in his class who's pretty and nice, even if she's not very smart. She spaces out a lot, and it's cute when she realises someone is talking to her, and she suddenly perks up. She also has double-eyelids and deep dimples when she smiles, and Lu Han thinks he's a little bit in love.

The problem is, she likes someone else.

With a deep sigh, Lu Han places the envelope in the drawer, filled with many other envelopes, each neatly stamped, and with his addresses over the years penned across the middle. He's fifteen, almost sixteen, but Changsha is a day's trip away. If he does well in his exams, then his parents will consider it. He's supposed to be focusing on his university entrance exams anyway, not planning trips to see a childhood friend. He needs to put away such childish tendencies. 

When he was fourteen, he'd thought that he was as old as he was going to get. It turns out, he had a lot more growing to do. 

His mind settles into a sea of blankness, and it takes him a moment to snap out of it.

When he does, he grabs a sheet of paper:

_I'm coming this summer. As soon as school is out. You better be there._

He copies Yixing's address onto an envelope and digs out a stamp, and without a word, pushes out the front door to find the nearest mailbox. It's not very far, but he's out of breath when he gets there. He hesitates, his hand hovering over the slot. Changsha is far. Very far. He swallows, and slides the letter in.

Tomorrow, he'll talk to her.

 

\-------

 

**intermission.**

 

"Yixing? Hey, Yixing." 

Yixing peels himself blearily away from his desk. Yifan is leaning over, a frown on his face. He looks annoyed. Yixing yawns as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

"Oh. What is it?" he asks.

The classroom is still empty. Yixing looks up at the clock - there's still an hour until classes start. He blinks. "You're here early," he says to Yifan.

Yifan shrugs and pulls up a chair. "You didn't wake up. Late night last night?"

Yixing takes a moment to think about this. He shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says. He yawns, unexpectedly, and stifles a giggle. "I don't know why I'm so tired."

Yifan sighs, long and long-suffering. "And you complain I sleep a lot. Here. Take a look at this."

Yixing watches curiously as Yifan reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin folder, placing it on Yixing's desk.

"What's this?" Yixing asks, even as he opens it.

"Just look."

Yixing does. It's several sheets of loose leaf paper, paperclipped together. Each one is lined with Yifan's chicken scrawl, that several months later, Yixing is finally learning to read. He pulls one out and squints at it. "I wish you'd write neater," Yixing says with a sigh.

"If you don't want it—" Yifan huffs and moves to pull the folder back, but Yixing hastily pushes Yifan's hand down.

"I want it, I want it," he says. He smiles, and puts the sheet down as he thumbs through them. "You wrote so many."

Yifan grunts. "I had time," he says. Yixing beams at him.

"Here, this, and this - the two tapes you sent me." Yifan hurriedly ducks his head, and pulls out the appropriate pages. Yixing smoothes a hand over them and grins.

"Thank you," he says. He means it. Something bothers him, and he hesitates. "Yifan..."

Yifan stands abruptly. "I need to get back to basketball practice," he says, and Yixing only then notices that Yifan is faintly covered in sweat, and that he's wearing his gym clothes. Then what had Yifan been doing here? Yixing frowns.

"Why don't you join the music club," Yixing suggests - again. Yifan ignores him, just gives him an absent minded wave as he strolls out the door. For reasons Yixing doesn't understand, Yifan only knows basketball, and only does basketball. That's not entirely true: ever since he walked in on Yixing writing songs, he'll sometimes sit in with him, and sometimes, like today, change or entirely rewrite his lyrics. He's supposed to keep it a secret, too. Yifan had impressed on him, the first time, that no one could know. Would it be that weird if the tall and imposing captain of the basketball team also liked music? Yixing didn't understand. There were lots of things Yixing didn't understand.

And then, at the back - "Youth Song-writing Contest?" Yixing reads aloud from the form. His name is already filled in. The top half is a flyer and an explanation: everyone of school age is encouraged to send in their own original songs, from which a panel of judges will select a pool of runner-ups. If successful, they would then be contacted and invited to send in another three songs for the contention of the grand prize. The grand prize will be awarded in Beijing.

Beijing.

Lu Han still lives in Beijing. At the thought of his childhood friend, Yixing smiles, and reaches into his desk where he keeps Lu Han's latest letter. Despite the years that have passed, he's surprised they still manage to keep in touch. An hour train ride away had been one thing, halfway across the country was another. 

Songwriting contest, huh. Where did Yifan even find such a thing? With a final tap of the form, Yixing turns to deciphering Yifan's handwriting instead, a simple melody already forming in his head.

 

\---

 

**episode 2.**

"You seem out of it lately. Everything okay?"

Lu Han looks up when Minseok sits down across from him. His co-worker looks genuinely worried, and Lu Han first feels a pang of guilt, before bursting into a wide grin. "You care about me?" he teases. Minseok makes a face and Lu Han laughs, putting his chopsticks down.

Minseok rolls his eyes and pulls out his own lunch. "Something seems to be on your mind," he says.

Lu Han hums. "Not really," he says.

"Liar." Minseok scoffs.

"Not really," Lu Han repeats. His lips twist into a smile. "I've just been...thinking."

"About what?"

"Hmmm."

"Wow, that's such a clear answer. And people tell me I'm bad at Chinese."

Lu Han laughs. "I liked it better when your Chinese sucked and I had to speak to you in Korean."

"Your Korean was so bad it was easier for me to understand Chinese," Minseok retorts. He pauses. "You know, if you ever need someone to talk to..."

"I can practice my Korean with you?" Lu Han laughs again at the face Minseok makes. He knows Minseok is being serious. He lets the smile fall from his own face, as he props his chin in one hand. "Sometimes I forget we're the same age."

Minseok grimaces. "If this is about my face..."

"No." Lu Han shakes his head. "I mean, sometimes it feels like you're so much older."

"Well if we're talking about who's more mature between the two of us, I don't think there's even a question."

"True." Lu Han chuckles. He hesitates, shovels a mouthful of rice into his mouth, and chews. "When I was in high school, we had a student from Korea. He was cute."

"Oh?" Minseok looks up. "Did you meet him recently or something?"

Lu Han shakes his head. "I don't know, I just suddenly remembered him right now. I don't think I've thought about him in years."

"A friend, huh?" Minseok says.

"Something like that."

 

-

 

Jongin is the one who first teaches Lu Han Korean.

He's several years younger, and attends the affiliated middle school. Lu Han finds him one day in an empty classroom, the desks pushed to one side, his ear-buds in as he dances by himself. Lu Han had stood there for a few minutes, content to simply watch, before he'd stepped in and waved.

"You're Zhongren, right?" Lu Han says.

The kid looks startled, shrugs his shoulders, nods. "Yeah," he mumbles. "I am."

"Do you think you could teach me to do that?" Lu Han asks. Jongin looks up, surprised. Lu Han nods towards him. "I can't dance at all."

Lu Han can't dance, but he is in the school's soccer club. This means he stays after school a lot. Sometimes, when he doesn't have practice, he meets up with Zhongren. Lu Han likes to call him Zhongzhong, even though Zhongren frowns and insists he's not cute. It goes both ways - Lu Han helps him with his homework, and Zhongren teaches Lu Han how to do a body wave. This is how Lu Han discovers Zhongren is actually an exemplary student, far better than Lu Han is, at any rate.

"My dad is here for work," Zhongren explains quietly. "I spent a year in an international school, but English is difficult for me too, and it's expensive."

"Why didn't you stay in Korea?" Lu Han asks, and Zhongren looks at him as if shocked.

"By myself?" he asks. He shakes his head. "Besides, my sisters..."

Zhongren has two much older sisters, but they're in university, and far too busy to take care of a surly, teenaged brother. So he'd come here, with his parents. He's quiet in class, keeps his head down, and does his work. More than anything, he likes to dance, and before he'd moved he'd won a few essay contests. Lu Han doesn't tell him that there'd been plenty of rumours that had swirled around the new transfer student anyway, and invites him to karaoke with his friends.

"Come on, it'll be fun, they're nice," Lu Han cajoles, but Zhongren stammers an excuse about having to help his mom with dinner.

Lu Han bikes home on most days. Traffic is crazy, but he's gotten used to it. They live in an apartment in one of those gated complexes, and there's a food stall right outside that he likes to pick up some baozi from on days when he's pretty sure his parents won't be home for dinner. Which happens to be most nights, but they're busy, and it's not like Lu Han can cook. He studies after he gets home. It's just a few hours a day, a lot less than he should be, but it keeps his grades high enough that his parents can't really complain, and leave him alone for the most part.

He thinks they've given up on him, but he's never asked.

He does his homework first, the ones that will be checked. This is the important part. This is the part that needs to be done.

And then there's the practice problems, the one he insists he doesn't do. He smiles to himself wryly. It was a habit he'd picked up a long time ago, and for some reason, it'd stuck.

In the end, he hadn't gone to karaoke either. "I think my mom wants me home for dinner," he'd said, knowing full well she wasn't going to be home. Everyone had been sad, saying that it sucked, but Lu Han knew that in minutes, all that would be forgotten. He knew because he'd done it before as well. He'd really been sorry, though. It did suck.

Life was full of moments like these. Knowing and not knowing were two sides of the same coin. Knowing, and _knowing_ , on the other hand...

Palms sweaty in the summer, fingers linked, words left unsaid.

Knowing, and not knowing.

The difference between eternity and time, the discrepency between eternity, and forever. 

The first word Zhongren had taught him had been saranghaeyo.

The girl had rejected him when she'd asked.

"I like you as a friend," she'd said. She'd smiled. He likes her dimples, and he'd smiled too.

"Saranghaeyo means I love you," Zhongren had told him patiently. Lu Han had laughed.

"Zhongzhong already knows about things like love?" Lu Han had teased. Zhongren had blushed a furious red, and had mumbled something about it being the first thing he'd learned to say in Chinese. Lu Han takes pity on him on account of his face, and doesn't press.

Years later, Lu Han doesn't understand why these two memories are intertwined. Time, he supposes. It's always a tricky one.

 

-

 

"You're still here?"

Lu Han notices the shadow near the bike rack and smiles, giving Zhongren a quick wave. The kid slouches over, tugging his cap a little lower over his eyes.

"I was practicing," he says. He shrugs. "I didn't notice how late it got."

Lu Han smiles and finishes unlocking his bike. He'd been studying with his friends, and it's late enough that the sun has fallen most of the way below the horizon. It's cooler now too, the weather slipping into late fall, and night comes sooner. "We go home in the same direction, don't we? I'll walk you home."

"I'm not a kid," Zhongren protests immediately, but Lu Han laughs it off.

"Come on," he says, and pushes his bike towards the gate.

The sun falls the rest of the way as they walk, Zhongren always trailing a half step behind Lu Han and his bike. This is a city that is always busy, and only in brief flashes of touch is there peace. They thread through main streets, Zhongren walking so close to Lu Han that he inevitably bumps into him every few meters, and every time, he inevitably jumps back and apologises. The tenth time or so this happens, Lu Han sighs and grabs Zhongren by the wrist, balancing his bike with one hand.

"Still a foreigner," Lu Han teases. He leads Zhongren off to a smaller street, one with fewer people.

"It's hard to get used to," Zhongren mumbles. He pulls his hand out of Lu Han's grasp, and Lu Han starts - he'd forgotten he was holding it.

Lu Han's been to Zhongren's house once - it's not far from his own, and it's near a karaoke place he likes to frequent. Zhongren doesn't ask how Lu Han knows how to get there, even after taking countless detours. Lu Han is just glad that Zhongren doesn't seem to know about his infamous lack of direction.

Zhongren is strangely quiet.

They stop by a supermarket, Lu Han popping in to pick up one of those packs of strawberry milk that's ostensibly for kindergarteners. Zhongren gives him a strange look at the check-out, but takes one anyway when Lu Han offers. 

"You're never too old for strawberry milk," Lu Han opines around the straw.

Zhongren simultaneously narrows his eyes and raises a brow, giving his face a beyond incredulous expression. "Hyung, this has Doraemon on it."

Lu Han laughs and yanks down his cap. "You're never too old for Doraemon either," he says.

It's not long before they near the gate of Zhongren's apartment complex.

"Thanks for walking me back," Zhongren says. He holds up his almost empty carton. "Thanks for the milk, too."

Lu Han waves and gets onto his bike. "See you tomorrow!" he says, and waves goodbye.

His father is at the dining room table when he gets home. Lu Han tells him that he'd been studying at school. His dad just grunts and tells him there's dumplings in the fridge and to hurry and eat so he can go study more.

When he'd been smaller, and when his grandmother had still been alive, the four of them used to gather in the kitchen every weekend to make dumplings together. Lu Han had never quite gotten the hang of pinching together the full dumplings, even if he had become quite the pro at rolling out the skins. His grandmother had passed away when he was eight. That had been a long time ago.

Lu Han closes the fridge, his hands still empty. He doesn't think his father notices, even when he murmurs that he's going to his room.

He throws his bag under his bed and changes out of his school uniform into a t-shirt and pair of sweats, the motions almost routine. He pulls out an exercise book and opens his pencil case, but for the first time in weeks, his hand hesitates over the handle of one of the desk drawers instead. Jerkily, he yanks it open. A sheet of stationary sits on the top, a single line scrawled on the first line. Lu Han pulls it out, pushing aside his exercise book and replacing it with the half-written letter instead.

He picks up his pencil, the tip hovering over the second line.

He rereads what's written:

Two words. 艺兴.

He could start with _How are you?_ or _It was nice seeing you_ or even _Hey, you idiot_.

The pencil falls to the table with a click-clack, and he buries his face in his arms.

The clock counts the seconds.

The seconds disappear into the past.

The past... The past clings to Lu Han's shoulders like a sheen of spring rain, like the petals of pale pink flowers littering the sidewalk, unable to let go.

Without looking, he reaches over and balls the paper in his fist. It crinkles and crumples, and Lu Han throws it under his bed like it had never existed.

The clock counts forward.

 

\---

 

**intermission**

When Yixing falls in love for the first time, he realises abruptly that he has felt this way before. Like most things that happen in life, the timing isn't convenient, and he doesn't get the luxury to ponder the thought as he's lying in bed with nothing else to do. No, he's in the middle of making out with Ye Jin, her tongue halfway down his throat, and this is three months before the gaokao so even after he sits up so fast he hits his head against the wall and stammers an unreasonable reason as to why he has to quickly leave, he _doesn't have the time_.

Ye Jin is pretty. They'd met one day at a cafe - the Starbucks on his street, to be exact - and met again a few days later, and again, and again. Ye Jin wears her hair in two tails that bounce off her shoulders. She wears glasses that make her round face seem even rounder, and Yixing thinks it's cute the way she gets flustered when he points it out. She has dimples, and they appear often when she smiles. She's not very good at cooking, or sewing, or anything to do with homemaking, but she's a whiz at science and has an amazing voice and these days, when Yixing has the sparest moment of time to think about writing songs, the songs are for her.

"Something on your mind?"

Yixing blinks. He's sitting at the dinner table, chopsticks resting between his fingers, against the bowl. His parents are working late again - his grandparents sit across from him. He smiles, shakes his head.

"Nothing, _waipo_ , I'm just a little tired." He shrugs, laughs a little, scratches at the back of his neck. His grandparents look at him with concern, and he puts down his chopsticks so he can wave his hands earnestly in dismissal. "Really, I'm fine!"

His grandfather clucks, and reaches across the table to serve some qincai onto Yixing's plate. "The government these days. Children are supposed to be playing."

His grandmother is shaking her head, but says nothing. They've had this conversation before. Everyone's had this conversation before. Yixing gives her a wry smile, and turns back to picking at his dinner.

His grandparents discuss something they saw on the news today - was it true that eating bananas and strawberries made mosquitos more attracted to you? Yixing listens half-attentively, answering in vague nods and head tilts as he finishes his meal. He takes his bowl to the sink.

"Just leave it there," his grandmother says. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," Yixing says. He turns the tap on, filling his empty bowl to soak. The cold water runs over his hand, and it's several seconds before he pulls it back and turns off the tap, turning to tell his grandparents he's going to his room before he leaves the kitchen.

There's a picture tacked to the wall of him and Ye Jin. It was taken at the theme park a few weeks ago. He has an arm around Ye Jin's shoulder, and she holds up a v sign with her other hand. There's a pair of floppy dog ears on her head, and Yixing wears a matching headband with rabbit ears. He'd accidentally dropped ice cream on her that day. He remembers that clearly.

His room is a gathering of relics through the years he's lived here. Goodbye presents from old classmates, small souvenirs from class trips, the tiny rocket sitting on his bookshelf that his dad had brought him back one day. His guitar sits in a corner, gathering dust. Next to it, on the floor, old composition notebooks. At the bottom, the one he'd submitted once, to the youth songwriting competition. That had been before Yifan had... had moved away. He hadn't won, but they had invited him to go to Beijing, anyway.

He'd gone to see the pandas.

In the bottom drawer of his desk, there is an old tea tin. Letters, received and written and unsent. The addresses vary. Then, one had come back, returned. Address had changed. No address to forward to.

Beijing had been busy, just like Yixing remembered it. He'd gone by himself - his parents decided he was old enough to. He'd stayed with a family friend. They had a four year old daughter, and a dog. The train ride there had been quiet and uneventful. He'd listened to his cd player until he'd fallen asleep, and when he woke up, he'd been there. In Beijing.

There'd been a pang then, as he'd stepped off the train. He looked across the platform, at the sea of people milling, pushing, crowding. Somewhere, there was someone waiting for him.

He'd felt that pang, that clutching in his chest, as if he suddenly couldn't breathe - but just as suddenly as it'd washed over him, it had disappeared.

That time, he'd simply accepted it, forgotten it. Left it behind in the tea tin.

But just like rockets eventually fell back to earth, memories he'd left to an arching orbit would eventually come back to where they'd begun.

To be honest, Yixing can't even remember what Lu Han looks like anymore. He remembers flower petals falling like snow, and he remembers sharp, warm fondness, and an ache in his throat as they sang and sang until their voices were all but gone.

 

\---

 

**three.**

_one two **three** four five **six** seven and eight_

Jongin counts the beats out in his head, his bangs dripping faintly with sweat. His headphones dangle loosely around his neck, and he tries to ignore the way they smack against his chin when he dips down sharply. There's no mirror here which makes it difficult to tell, but Jongin _thinks_ he's still having trouble with the third beat. He pushes his bangs away from his face, and runs it through again, slowly this time.

_one two **three** —_

He rips his headphones off in frustration, before he remembers that they weren't even on. They end up being yanked out of his music player and jittering across the floor. Jongin stares at them for a moment before he throws himself down next to them.

He can't focus.

He can't focus at all.

It's all because of that kid he keeps being partnered with in gym. It's all because Zitao, that kid, had made an off-handed remark about how it was okay to like people no matter what and for the rest of the day, instead of math, he'd thought about someone's smile. Instead of language (which he struggled with on the best of days) he'd remembered obnoxious laughter. Instead of science, he thought about strawberry milk, and he hated it.

Hated all of it.

And now his beats were all tangled and his moves weren't sharp and he kept being distracted and—

"I thought I heard something. Zhongren, shouldn't you be going home?"

Speak of the devil. _Zhongren_ \- only his teachers called him that, he wants to say. Call him Jongin. His name is Jongin.

He doesn't, though. Jongin just looks up, arches his neck so far back that Lu Han appears in view and upside down. "Hyung, it's you," he says. There's a flicker across Lu Han's face. Jongin knows he doesn't like it when he calls him that. Because he's not Korean, Lu Han had said. Jongin blinks. Well, he's not Chinese either.

Lu Han walks across the room and sits down next to Jongin. He loops an arm around Jongin's shoulders and pulls him upright. Jongin's heart is racing in his throat; maybe three hours of non-stop dance is finally catching up with him.

Jongin has always been an optimist.

"You're all sweaty," Lu Han says, and Jongin pulls a face.

"I know."

Lu Han ruffles his hair and Jongin ducks his head, feeling increasingly like a petulant child. "Go home and shower," Lu Han says, like Jongin hadn't been planning on doing just that.

"I will," Jongin says.

Lu Han stands and waits as Jongin tidies up, his hands busy on his phone. Jongin watches him out of the corner of his eye as Lu Han remains in the corner of the room - Lu Han is not looking at him, but neither has he moved. Supressing a sigh, Jongin pulls off his damp shirt and tugs on the spare he'd stuffed in his bag that morning. He feels his back prickle, but when he turns around, Lu Han is still singularly focused on his phone. Girlfriend? Jongin wonders, but all he knows is that Lu Han had asked out the most popular girl in the school only to be rejected. He wonders when that had happened. Rejection carries with it a weight of sadness that should be only too apparent, but Jongin sees Lu Han almost every day now, and never once does he remember the elder being anything but chipper and full of joie de vivre.

"Ready to go?"

Lu Han's voice startles him out of his reverie - Jongin jumps. Lu Han laughs, and beckons towards the door. Silently, Jongin follows. Three steps behind, then two (as he turns off the lights) and then he jogs the remaining steps to trail just beside Lu Han.

December evenings fall cold and black, and Jongin shivers as they push through the doors. He sees Lu Han do the same - and no wonder, because Jongin is wearing a thick down jacket and Lu Han...isn't. It's too cold - too icy, to bike these days. Jongin knows that Lu Han can take the bus from school. When he'd brought it up, Lu Han had simply shrugged and said he liked the walk. Jongin isn't one to argue, not about things like this.

Somewhere in his bag is a scarf. It's not his scarf, not really - it belongs to one of his sisters who decided they no longer wanted it because it wasn't "cute" enough, and so his mom had shoved it into his bag where it had stayed ever since. Now, Jongin digs it out from underneath the few textbooks he carries and the sweaty shirt he'd just peeled off. Now, Jongin has to jog forward again because he's fallen behind, and he loops the scarf rather messily around Lu Han's neck. He attempts to loop the scarf around Lu Han's neck - he succeeds in dumping a pile of knitted yarn on his head.

"Huh--?" Lu Han stops suddenly in surprise. He pulls the scarf off his face, and turns to stare at Jongin, a bare handspan away. Lu Han had stopped too quickly. Jongin counts five centimeters between their faces before his eyes cross, and he takes a step back.

"Use it, hyung," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He walks forward quickly, past Lu Han, his face warm. Ice glints off the railing, reflecting the street light and the lights from the towers far, far away. Like stars, only frozen. Only cold.

Snow falls faintly. Flakes drift down in miniscule clumps, landing on his eyelashes, seconds apart. Beside him, the snow has caught in Lu Han's hair, and in the scarf he now has wound around his neck, around his face. His mouth is obscured, but Jongin can still see the smile through it all.

"Thanks," Lu Han says. His eyes crinkle a little, tiny crowsfeet spanning from the corners. Jongin ducks his head and murmurs a quick you're welcome.

Within his chest, Jongin has the muted recognition of an off beat, a syncopation, a half-step followed too quick by the full step and inside his chest he stumbles. His breath catches and then blooms in wisps. Jongin glances up—a streak of light crosses the sky.

"What's that?"

Jongin stops, feet rooted to asphalt covered thinly with scattered ice. Another streak, and then another. He cranes his head upwards. The last two are dimmer, fainter, barely visible through the snow-swollen clouds, but there. Lu Han stands beside him.

"Gemenids." 

"Huh?"

"It's a meteor shower."

"Why is it called..."

"Gemenids? No idea. Something about twins."

Jongin stares at the night sky, but there is no light, there are no firey blazes. Only the shadowy grey of clouds, both emitting and swallowing the faint glow of night. His neck hurts, and Jongin cannot remember the last time he saw stars. Under Beijing's skies, he's convinced himself that stars do not exist, and have never existed. Stars are a remnants of the rockets sent up at Jiuquan nearly two thousand kilometers away, but the light of their memories can never compete with the light of the living, pounding fiercely down on the ground.

Many years later, Jongin will remember this moment. He will remember standing in the middle of a deserted street, and he will remember the clouds. He will remember the way Lu Han steps closer, and then closer, and the way Lu Han rests his cheek against Jongin's shoulder. Jongin has yet to truly grow - by the time he says goodbye to Lu Han for the last time, he will have outgrown him, but right now, Lu Han still has the advantage in height.

He will not remember the way Lu Han's breath had played against his neck, nor will he remember the faint radiant trail through the sky, just as he turns his head, ready to walk away. He will not remember that Lu Han had walked home with his scarf and never returned it, just as he will not remember where Lu Han had said he had gone. Instead, he will stare at a sky peppered with stars, and remember this moment, and wonder where Lu Han was.

But this is not many years later, this is not yet a memory.

 

-

 

A cool breeze brushes the clouds through the night sky. Sweat cools from skin, leaving him like a breath of fresh air, a quiet sigh that sloughs off his limbs, slips off his neck. the lights by the river seem near blinding in the darkness, despite them being no brighter than they usually were.

Whenever he remembers that night, he remembers it happening here, even if it had been a sea away, hundreds of hours, so many years.

Lu Han didn't need to walk with him that far that night. Jongin wonders if he'd simply forgotten - but the older boy is so deep in thought that he can't bear to break through the odd serenity on his face. Lu Han, Jongin knows, is anything but serene. Lu Han is loud, wild, brash, ugly - but when he's with Jongin, it comes through so rarely. Lu Han is strangely careful - as if Jongin cares, as if Jongin is only allowed to see what is good.

So instead, he walks with Lu Han, side by side.

"The supermarket." He blurts this out quite suddenly, surprising even himself.

Lu Han glances at him, his brows furrowed.

"Let's go to the supermarket," he says. He grabs Lu Han by the wrist and half drags half leads him as he runs down half remembered streets. Lu Han is the one who has to steer him in the end, laughing as Jongin pouts. _I knew that_ he wants to say, but his throat is strangely dry.

He tells Lu Han to wait for him, he'll just be a minute - he emerges just over a minute later, which Lu Han points out.

"Shut up," he grumbles. He stuffs a carton into Lu Han's hand. "For last time."

"Strawberry milk?" Lu Han looks up at Jongin and quirks an eyebrow.

Jongin bites down hard on his lip. "I'm just paying you back," he says. "I...I don't like not paying people back."

Whatever happens next, Jongin doesn't remember. They walk, they talk about school, about the weather. They stop, stand. There's a river, and there's a tree. The stars are hidden, but the stars are almost always hidden. There is no breeze and the air is oppressively still.

Jongin knows that tomorrow, there will be no Lu Han.

Tomorrow, he will move, again. He hasn't said anything. Lu Han doesn't know.

Jongin knows now that it's not like he's in love with Lu Han or anything - that'd be dumb. Not because they're both guys or something like that - Zitao had insisted that there was nothing wrong with that anyway and Jongin had given up arguing - but because. Well. Because.

Besides, to Lu Han, Jongin's always gonna be that kid. Just like how he looks at the middle schoolers now, and knows that to him, they'll always be kids. Jongin's just the kid that Lu Han happened to be nice to. That Lu Han happened to take under his wing, the kid that he's playing _hyung_ to even though Lu Han keeps telling him that he's not his _hyung_ , he's not Korean.

Sometimes, when Jongin looks at Lu Han, he sees Lu Han looking away. Far away. Like he's staring into the distance. Maybe staring at someone who Lu Han cherishes, treasures, just like Jongin treasures Lu Han but in a better way, a proper way. He thinks they must be far away, so far away that Lu Han has never mentioned her, never mentioned them.

The light ripples off the surface of the river, and casts Lu Han's profile in shadow. There'd been a rocket launch earlier that day. A flurry of excitement had overtaken the school - one of the astronauts on it was an alumni. They'd crowded around tiny TVs, watching as the long, steel pencil was carefully latched into place, and then counting down as one as flames gathered at its base before the entire ensemble disappeared into the sky. 

Maybe, he muses, that person is like that rocket. Cherished and protected, but once the countdown was over, they would only ever get further and further.

Maybe, he muses, Lu Han's person is like the meteor shower. Bright and blazing, circling away, closer, finally falling in a doomed arc back to earth. Back to Lu Han.

Maybe, he muses, it was Lu Han who was the rocket, and every day they'd been spending together had been counting down.

2...1...

His phone rings. Without looking, Jongin scoops it out of his pocket, holds it up to his ear. "Yeah?" he answers.

"Yo, where are you?" It's the choreographer. Jongin blinks the sweat out of his eyes, and swallows.

"Sorry hyung," he says, walking away from the river. "I'll be right there."

Strange, he could've been sure he'd wiped the sweat from his hair before he'd left the studio. It must be warmer than he thought.

 

-

 

**intermission**

Lu Han comes home to an empty apartment. One that's dark and quiet and reflects him as exactly the sort of bachelor he is. At work, his coworkers laugh and wonder what sort of over the top decorations he has that he'll never invite them over. But then again, at work, Lu Han laughs with them, and for a few hours a day, he does not live in an empty, cluttered apartment, and nor does he spend his evenings alone.

The light switch is just around the wall, by the stove and sink that passes for a kitchen. His apartment isn't that small, it's just...cozy. He lives alone, and he likes living alone. There's the kitchen, the bathroom, the space off the kitchen with enough room for a couch, a TV. The bedroom, just behind it all, the balcony opening out behind the door, taken up by the washing machine pushed to one side.

He picks his way around the jacket on the floor - it'd fallen off the couch. Clambers over the bed, kicking aside the pile of dirty laundry, and stepping around the pile of clean clothes. Doesn't bother turning on the light in the bedroom, it's not like he doesn't know where everything is, anyways. At least, everything that he needs.

The days are cooling and the nights even more so. Yet the still air is stifling, and Lu Han carries for a brief second, that useless wish for a breath of fresh air that he knows to never expect in the realms of Beijing. The city is ablaze with light, only highlighting the darkness that surrounds his tiny patch of concrete on the balcony. He leans againt the railing, wondering, not for the first time, what would happen if he tipped over the edge, fell, hit the asphalt, the fence, the car below. Objects on Earth accelerate in fall at 9.8 meters per second squared. He lives on the sixth floor. Three meters per floor, maybe two. Something like fifteen meters. He'd hit the ground at... Maybe a few broken bones. Or just one. If he's unlucky.

He reaches for the crumpled pack of cigarettes he keeps out here, stashed on top of the washing machine, behind the laundry detergent. The lighter, too, because one isn't much use without the other. It takes him a few tries, his hands never steady enough. The tiny, flickering flame casts an intermittent glow against his fingers, a tiny shadow where he'd nicked his thumb a few years ago.

The thing was, one day, the letters had stopped coming. He hadn't even noticed they'd stopped coming, until he resurfaced from the monotony of life to find that they'd just...stopped. He could've sent one, maybe. Asked. Mailed a letter. Called. He had the phone number. He could've. But maybe he was busy, sick. Hurt. Tired. Busy. (Forgotten.) And then what did you say after three months? Four months? A year.

(Hi, how have you been, do you still remember me, this is awkward, we used to hang out a lot together. Yeah.)

Sometimes, he'll think about the past, and he'll think about the way email has made his collection of stamps all but redundant. About how cellphones could've changed anything.

 **to: no recepient -** how are you?

 **to: no recepient -** have you eaten?

 **to: no recepient -** i'm starting to sound like you

 **to: no recepient -** i miss you

 **to: no recepient -** i don't know you anymore

 **to: no recepient -** you would get along with minseok

 **to: no recepient -** you're both mean this is deleted **to: no recepient -** you're both too nice - deleted - you're both

Lu Han wraps his hand around his cellphone in his pocket. Down here, in the subway, at this station, there is no coverage. His bag sits heavy on his shoulder. Across the tracks, on the other platform, he catches a glimpse of eyes, a mouth, the angle of a jaw, the set of cheekbones, a strange hint of familiarity, the hint of a dimple. A train.

One that he helped design.

It rushes in, pauses, and pulls out in a torrent of noise and wind and human lives. It pulls away, and there is no one there.

But even if there was, a moment later, his train pulls into the station. Lu Han pauses, smiles to himself, and pushes his way on.

 

-

 

**episode four.**

"Alright, see you next week!" Yixing waves cheerily to the last of the students as they trickle out, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his neck. This is a thing he does once a week - teach a beginners hip hop class, just because he can, and because he can only spend so much time in front of blueprints and calculations before his head feels like it's going to explode. He'd never been good at math - the problem was, he'd sucked too much at everything else.

The studio echoes with emptiness when the stereo is off. Yixing gives himself a moment, a long moment - a long enough moment that he ends up staring at Chen for several seconds before he registers his presence. He blinks. "You haven't left?" he asks. It sounds dumb, coming out of his mouth. A little.

Chen is Korean, his real name is Zhongda, Jongdae. He's not tall, not short, not particularly handsome or anything, but Yixing likes the way his eyes seem to curl up and the smile or laughter that's always present on his face, even when he's all limbs and left feet. He talks to his students, every now and then. Sometimes they invite him out for drinks. Sometimes he accepts.

Chen is leaning against the wall, one of the ones without mirrors. He has a bag slung over his shoulder, his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. He's smiling, but then again, he always is.

"We go the same way, don't we?" Chen asks. "It made more sense to wait for you, then to bump into you at the station and be awkward."

Yixing laughs at this, and nods. "It's not awkward," he says, as he goes about locking up. Normally, he'd like to cool down, fool around, dry off, change - but to say so now, that would be awkward.

These days, Yixing no longer thinks about Lu Han. There's a memory of a childhood friend, and a memory of something akin to the fierce burn of first love, but it's faded and fallen behind the couch cushion like an old photograph.

Today, Chen brings up his friend again, the one back in Korea that's the whole reason why he's taking this class in the first place. "He keeps saying I can't do it, I told him, we'll see!"

Yixing laughs, and promises he'll do his best to help.

He knows about Chen's friend, by reputation. "You know KAI?" Chen had said, the first time. He'd squinted, shrugged a little. "Jongin...That's him." Part idol, part dancer. Yixing admires him. 

These days, he no longer thinks about Lu Han - except to think about how he doesn't think about him.

Chen gets off the stop before his, and Yixing continues on to his tiny apartment in the outskirts of Beijing. It's in an old, gated apartment complex, and he's never had the heart to move, even if he has to climb eight flights of stairs and his knees and back have never forgiven him for what he put them through during university. These days, they say you need a house, a car, and a job to get a girl. He still hasn't met a girl he'd be willing to sacrifice his den or risk his life behind a wheel for. It's not them - it's just...him.

His apartment is small and crowded, but there's a sense of compartementality. There, the kitchen. There, the bathroom. There, everything else. A table that folds aside when he needs the bed, a bed that doubles as a chair. A guitar propped against the corner of the room. Half written songs are scattered across the desk. The table folds away, but the detritus on it speaks volumes to the last time it's been unused, or perhaps to the last time the full width of the bed that it straddles has been needed.

He tosses his bag onto the floor, by the foot of his bed, a crumpled dress shirt and dark slacks shoved inside. It joins a pair of sweatpants, a loose hoodie that he wears when he goes out for a morning run. Not dissimilar from what he's wearing now; a pair of black sweats, a t-shirt, a sweater zipped up halfway over it. The lamp by the desk isn't plugged in. It hasn't been, for a while now. He glances around his room for a moment, taking in the picture of his family on the wall, the JJ Lin poster taped above his bed from that concert, a certificate once framed and now rolled up and stuffed away on the second shelf of the tiny cabinet. He should replace that cabinet - the thought flickers across his mind, but gets deposited away just like all the other flickering thoughts. Who knew how many thoughts came and went without lingering. What mattered were the ones that remained.

He takes out his phone next, and then his wallet. These go on the bed. His headphones, fished out of a pocket, join his phone. Running his hands down his sides and satisfied that whatever personal effects that shouldn't be laundered have been removed, he quickly shucks off his clothes, kicking them into the laundry pile. The one that's beside the laundry basket.

The bathroom has just enough room for a shower, a toilet, the sink crammed into a corner. He flicks on the light, catches his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he stares. The faint stubble on his chin, hair too long falling across his eyes, eyes that look more tired than he feels. Or perhaps he feels more tired than he looks. He's always surprised at how _old_ he has become. There are days when still he wakes up and worries he's forgotten to do his English homework. Again. He hasn't had to do English homework in nearly a decade.

The shower is still cold when he steps in, the water hitting his skin, stinging bitterly as he shivers. The sweat from the lesson and the dirt that inevitably clings to every resident, visitor, tenant of Beijing, this city, the capital of their home - it sloughs off with the water that slowly goes from cold to hot, and the sharp ache, the blistering, takes on a whole other flavour. HIs eyes closed, he lets it wash over him, burning, five seconds, ten, twenty. Before he reaches back, adjusts the temperature to something more suited for human contact.

He finishes quickly - shampoo, soap, conditioner. Ten minutes haven't passed since he'd stepped into the doors before he's towelling dry, rummaging through the drawer for some clean clothes. He needs to do laundry, soon, eventually, but not yet.

His fridge is less of a success, and he shuts it, his lips pursed. It's been empty for a week, but he keeps forgetting that.

He grabs his phone, his wallet, a pack of cigarettes from which he taps one out before he stuffs them all into his pockets. His keys are by the door, where he'd left them, and he grabs those too before he heads outside. 

He doesn't light it until he steps past the gate of the apartment complex, pausing for a moment with his back to the rail. The streets are near empty now, at this time, but as he walks slowly down the street, he greets the grandma who sells _bing_ , the _ayi_ who takes care of the flowers by the side of the sports stadium.

It's a warm autumn night, and Yixing breathes it in, wishing faintly for winter, or better yet, for spring. As if in answer to his unformed prayers, a stiff breeze whips up, working its way into his still damp hair, underneath the thin fabric of his shirt, down the deep cut of his collar. He stands by a curb, surrounded by a sudden shower of flower petals, little, white things that cling to his sleeves.

It feels like a memory.

A good memory.

He smiles, takes a deep breath, and debates whether he should finally go to the grocery store for instant noodles, or call up one of his friends from the dance studio. Maybe he's in the mood for dumplings.

The light at the crosswalk changes, and Yixing pulls out his phone. He scrolls through it as he crosses, shooting Xiumin a text to see if he's free. And faintly, through the busy sounds of night comes the familiar rumble of train tracks. For a moment, he glances up, as if in memory.

The wind dies down, and just as he reaches the other side, his phone beeps with a text.


End file.
